They Call Him Deathmask
by natashabromanoff
Summary: Deathmask is a killer, an assassin, wanted by almost thirty countries and nearly every intelligence organization in the world. He's responsible for forty-two confirmed kills and countless unconfirmed. He's dangerous, fast, and skilled in nearly every form of combat known to man. And no one has ever seen his face.
1. Prologue

Well, here I am, starting another Alex Rider fic. I think I might be too deep into this fandom (I've read over 400k words of fics in the past two or three days). But, really, there are much worse fandoms to be this deep into.

This is set in the universe of my other AR fics but can be read without reading those first.

* * *

Agent Williams adjusts his glasses, causing the video feed on Smithers's computer screen to shake for a moment. "Watch it," Smithers warns. He taps several keys before the static disappears completely. "We need a steady feed."

"Sorry," comes the reply through a speaker sitting next to the computer. "I'm not used to wearing glasses."

"It's alright. Just be careful. They're only prototypes, after all."

The agent leans against a wall and casually looks around. Smithers's camera picks up all of it.

As a meeting place, it isn't anything special. Smithers has to admit, he had almost been expecting something better from Deathmask. He supposes no one is perfect.

Suddenly, without any sound or other warning, Deathmask is there when Agent Williams turns to his left. The video feed jumps noticeably as the agent recoils. Or maybe Smithers is the one who jumped. He's not completely sure. What he is sure of is that Deathmask deserves his name.

A mask with the image of a grinning skull looks at Agent Williams.

"MI6 agreed?" The voice makes Smithers shiver. He knows the skull is just a mask, but the voice, cold and deadly, matches it so well it could be real.

"Yes. I have the money. Where's the agent?"

"I want to see my money first," Deathmask says, casually twirling a knife in his left hand. He handles it perfectly-terrifyingly.

Agent Williams nods and opens the bag he's been carrying. Deathmask looks down and nods. "Alright. Follow me."

"F-follow you?" Agent Williams manages, obviously surprised.

"You heard me. You want your agent back, don't you? Now you can take her back yourself." He's still spinning the knife as he starts walking.

Smithers frowns. This isn't part of the agreement. "Be careful, Williams," he mutters.

Deathmask looks back, and Agent Williams immediately starts walking. "Where are we going?"

"I told you. Your agent. Now stop talking. I..." He trails off and stops walking suddenly. The knife, however, continues to spin. "You're transmitting. And receiving. Part of the deal was that I'd be unmonitored," he says, voice quiet yet incredibly dangerous.

Smithers freezes. How on earth can Deathmask tell? His transmissions are disguised as perfectly normal radio signals. They should be impossible to detect.

"Remove your earpiece. And your mic," Deathmask orders, his knife pointing straight at Agent Williams's heart.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fine. Keep them in, then." Deathmask lunges forward and traps the agent against the nearest building. Agent Williams tries to fight him off, but Deathmask is faster and stronger than anyone Smithers has ever seen.

Smithers sends an immediate alert to Mrs. Jones. This is bad. This is worse than bad. This is a disaster.

"Hey there, MI6!" Deathmask says loudly. Agent Williams lets out a small gasp of pain. "Seems to me like you've broken our terms. Personally, I count that as permission."

"Please...I'll-I'll get rid of them," Agent Williams gasps. From the sound of it, there's a knife to his neck.

"Shut up," the assassin snaps, and punches him. The glasses fall to the ground.

Somehow, the camera still works. It can see Deathmask's face, but barely. Only the mask is in the way.

"Looks like you've sent another agent to their death," the assassin hisses.

Agent Williams struggles, but to no avail. "Please, you don't have to kill me," he begs. "You can just let me go. You don't need to do this. Take the money."

"You're right. I don't have a good reason to kill you." Deathmask pauses for a moment, considering. Then, suddenly, he yanks off his mask. Smithers gasps. Deathmask must not have realized there was a camera. "Oh, look. You've seen my face. Now I do. Say goodbye, MI6."

Smithers looks away as the assassin stabs Agent Williams, but he can't escape the horrible gurgling gasps.

"Consider your other agent dead as well. Never contact me again," Deathmask says angrily. Smithers still isn't watching. He feels like he might be sick.

Suddenly, Mrs. Jones shows up. "What is it, Smithers?" she asks.

His face must show something. She hurries over, staring at the monitor. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Smithers nods and forces himself to turn back around. Deathmask is gone, and so is the bag of cash.

"Did you see anything?" she asks.

"Just a moment," Smithers replies. He takes a deep breath and rewinds the video. There are only a few seconds where Deathmask's face is visible at all, and it's too blurry to do much good. Smithers taps several keys. Soon, the image sharpens. He squints at it, trying to figure out why the face looks so familiar.

Mrs. Jones lets out a quiet gasp, and it suddenly occurs to him.

There's no way. He's been dead for almost three and a half years. It can't be him. It can't be...

"Alex," Mrs. Jones whispers. "But..."

Smithers quickly runs a facial recognition program.

 _Rider, Alexander J. Deceased._

How? Alex is dead. Alex is...

Mrs. Jones gets over her shock before Smithers does. "Send me a copy of this video," she orders. "And contact K-Unit. They're going to want to know that...that..." She takes a deep breath and tries again.

"They're going to want to know that Alex Rider is alive."

* * *

So here you go! I know this chapter is short but the others will probably be longer. I don't know how my update schedule will be because thanks to school starting I basically have no free time now but I'll do my best! I really will!

Reviews will make it easier to tolerate the soul-crushing institution known as high school :)


	2. Unexpected Return

High school (mostly marching band if I'm being honest) is destroying a lot of my free time and it took me this long to figure out a good writing schedule so I'm really sorry that it took like five weeks to get this out. It (hopefully) won't happen again. I'll do my best

I've also gotten a beta! Thanks to fancygirl229 (who I'm also lucky enough to go to school with), there should be minimal mistakes. Hopefully. (If there are, it's probably me, not her.)

* * *

"Don't even lie, Eagle, you were scared!" Fox jibes, grinning.

Eagle glares. "Of course I wasn't scared," he says. "I'm not scared of spiders. That's ridiculous."

"You looked scared to me," Snake interjects helpfully.

"I was _startled_!" Eagle says, crossing his arms emphatically. "There's a _difference_."

Wolf snorts. "Sure."

"Now remember, Eagle." Fox places a hand on Eagle's shoulder, completely straightfaced. "It's just as scared of you as you are of it."

Eagle throws a piece of pasta at his face, but the indignant response that Fox is sure is coming is prevented by a loud ringing sound.

"Hey," Wolf says, frowning. "We agreed. No interruptions."

"It should only be accepting calls from priority numbers. Sorry. I'll turn it off," Fox says. But he's pretty sure that the only numbers he has set to priority are the rest of K-Unit's. He pulls out his phone.

For a moment, he just stares at the screen and the strangely familiar number displayed. Then, suddenly, the reason that he knows the number hits him. He freezes. He hasn't seen that number in over three years.

"Something wrong?" Snake asks. He sounds concerned.

"It's MI6," Fox manages to say, somehow, and feels a not-quite-inexplicable anger well up inside him.

Eagle leans forward and frowns. "Are you going to answer it?"

Fox hesitates, then nods and hits the answer call button before he can convince himself not to. "This is Ben Daniels," he says.

"There's a problem with your account, number four-eight-stroke-nine-three-zero-two," replies the calm, professional voice that he doesn't think has changed in three years. "Please come to the bank between one and three today, along with anyone else who may be a co-holder on your account. Have a nice day, sir. Goodbye."

"Wait, I-" Fox starts to say, but she's already hung up. He hadn't gotten a chance to even _try_ to reply. He sets his phone on the table, mind racing. What are they doing? If he remembers correctly, both the account number and the time given are part of a code—a code that means urgent, immediate meeting necessary. He's not sure what the whole co-holder thing is about, but he suspects it means that the rest of K-Unit should come too.

"What'd they say?" Eagle asks, interrupting his train of thought.

Fox sighs. "We need to go to the bank."

"'We'? As in, us too?"

"Yeah," Fox confirms.

"It can't be good if they want all of us," Snake says.

The expression on Wolf's face is deadly. "Nothing with MI6 involved is ever good."

* * *

The Royal and General Bank is, as it's always been, very good at appearing to be a very average bank. Of course, appearances can be deceiving. Fox watches the businessmen and everyday people filing in and out and can't help but wonder how many are agents.

He approaches the woman behind the counter, who offers a pleasant smile. "How can I help you today, sir?" she asks.

"I'm here for an issue regarding account number four-eight-stroke-nine...three-zero-two?" he replies.

If she notices his hesitation, she doesn't show it. "The lift on the right," she tells him, handing him a small card with a group of numbers on it—the floor numbers he'll need to press in order for the lift to actually work.

Fox thanks her and turns around to see his unit looking extremely confused. "Uh, Fox? There's only one lift," Eagle says, raising one eyebrow at him.

"There's only one lift for the general public," Fox corrects. "You just have to know where to look for the others."

" _Spies_ ," Wolf mutters, shaking his head.

Fox hasn't even knocked on the door of Mrs. Jones's office before it swings open, revealing a vaguely troubled looking Mrs. Jones. Smithers sits next to her. "Sit down," she says, gesturing first at K-Unit and then at the four chairs set in front of her. After glancing at each other, they do.

"Why are we here?" Fox asks immediately. It's bold, perhaps even bordering on rude, he knows, but he has little patience left for MI6.

"Well, that's going to take some explaining," she says, her pen tapping rapidly on her desk. K-Unit says nothing. "There are two main reasons, but they won't make sense yet." She pauses for a moment, seemingly thinking. "Let's just start with this. What do you know about Deathmask?"

"Deathmask?" Snake repeats, one eyebrow raised. "I don't think I've ever heard of him."

"I haven't either," Wolf says. Eagle shrugs.

"I've heard the name once or twice," Fox says. "But I don't actually know anything."

"Then let's start there." Mrs. Jones gestures to a wall to their left, which at the press of a button from Smithers becomes a large screen. A picture of a skull—no, a mask with a skull on it, Fox realizes—appears suddenly. "Deathmask is a highly dangerous assassin who has taken out forty five targets—that we know of—since he first emerged a little less than three years ago," she says, her voice businesslike and serious. "No one has ever been able to catch him. Even more impressive, no one has ever seen his real face."

Wolf frowns. "All due respect, but we're not going to be able to help with that. We're soldiers, not spies."

"You don't need to help with it," she says, and takes a deep breath. "Two days ago, we sent an agent to complete a deal with Deathmask. He was wearing a near-microscopic camera disguised as a pair of glasses, the feed of which was being transmitted to us. The agent is dead, but the camera managed to get us an image of Deathmask's face."

"Where are you going with this?" Fox manages to keep his tone fairly civil.

"Smithers?" Mrs. Jones says, sitting down and immediately putting a peppermint in her mouth. Her voice is steady, but something in her face doesn't seem right. Something has to be wrong. If only Fox had an idea of what.

Another button from Smithers and the screen shows a medium-quality picture of...

No. It's impossible.

"Alex," Snake whispers, echoing Fox's thoughts.

Waves of shock surge through him. This is impossible. Alex had been hit by a car. Wolf had seen him die in the hospital. Fox had been to the kid's _funeral_ , for heaven's sake.

"You're looking at the face of Alexander Rider." Mrs. Jones says, her mouth a thin line. Fox could be wrong, but he thinks he sees pain in her eyes. Maybe he doesn't. He isn't sure.

"It can't be," Eagle suddenly blurts. "That's not Alex. There's no way. People don't just come back from being dead for three and a half years."

"I've run the facial recognition eight ways," Smithers says almost miserably. "It comes up with the same thing every time. Alex. It's him."

Fox forces himself to look at the picture again. It definitely looks like Alex, albeit older, which makes sense (except none of this makes sense). The only thing that isn't right is the eyes. Fox had never seen Alex's eyes like that—cold, deadly, emotionless. Still, he's sure it's him.

"You said there were two reasons that we were here," Wolf says, still staring at the picture. "What are they?"

"The first was just to verify that it's Alex in the picture, which I think you've done," Mrs. Jones says. "As for the second—we sent a small analysis team when we went to recover the body of our agent. They found several samples of...well, as strange as it sounds, they found bits of wood from a species of sassafras tree that's only found in North America and has never been planted anywhere in Europe. We checked, and there used to be a mulch factory that worked with that specific species, but it's been closed for over ten years. The building is still there. We think Deathmask might be working out of it for now. Maybe."

"You think you've found Deathmask because of some wood on the ground that might not even be from him?" Eagle asks skeptically.

"It sounds rather hasty when you put it like that, but, yes, I suppose."

"Great," Eagle mutters. "Just checking."

"And what does this abandoned factory have to do with us?" Fox asks cautiously.

"We're planning an assault tomorrow, and we need one more unit. I'll understand if you refuse, but we might find some answers there. Answers that I think we all want."

"Tomorrow?" Snake says. "Isn't that a bit soon?"

"He might already be gone, so, no, not in this case." Mrs. Jones sighs. "I wish we had more time too, trust me."

"What do you three think?" Wolf asks in a low voice.

Fox thinks about it for a moment. If K-Unit is there, will Deathmask (Alex? Fox doesn't know which to think) be more or less likely to attack in full force? He'd like to think that they were positive figures in his life. Alex wouldn't attack them. Then again, Fox hadn't thought that Alex would die, come back, and become an assassin, either. He wants answers. And he wants to see Alex. "I think we should," he says quietly.

"So do I," Eagle agrees. Snake hesitates for a moment longer before nodding.

"We're in," Wolf tells Mrs. Jones.

She gives a brief, tight smile. "Alright. You're free to leave. Report to safehouse two-five-one at oh-six-hundred hours."

They nod and rise from their chairs. As they exit the room, Wolf says darkly, "I just hope we don't regret it."

"Don't say that," Snake chastises. "There'll be an explanation. It'll all be fine."

Fox says nothing, but, privately, agrees with Wolf.

* * *

It's a sign of how troubled K-Unit is that the rest of the evening is quiet and subdued. They don't talk much, just sit around wordlessly and wonder.

"Do you suppose it's really Alex?" Snake says quietly, finally voicing all of their thoughts. "I mean, he was dead. Definitely dead. For three and a half years."

"Closer to six months," Fox corrects flatly. "Mrs. Jones said Deathmask-Alex-whoever-has been active for around three years."

"But Cub wouldn't have even been sixteen!" Wolf objects. He glares aggressively at the wall opposite him, although he knows it won't help anything. "Besides, he's dead. I saw the doctors try to revive him, and I saw them fail. His heart stopped."

"Then how do you explain the picture?" Snake picks at a loose thread on the arm of the couch. "That was either Alex or someone who looks exactly like him."

"I don't know. I don't _know_! It doesn't make sense," Wolf says angrily. It _doesn't_ make sense. None of it does. Cub was dead, and now he's not. Or maybe he is. Wolf wishes they had some solid, definite answers instead of all this vague guessing.

"You've been quiet, Eagle," Snake says. Eagle looks up.

"Well, it's just...I had a really terrible thought," he says reluctantly.

"What?" Fox asks.

Eagle hesitates. "Did any of us actually... _see_ Alex's body? We didn't at the funeral. We didn't before the funeral." He looks at Wolf hopefully. "In the hospital, did you see?"

Wolf almost insists that of course he did. He had seen, hadn't he?

Hadn't he?

He forces himself to think back to that day in the hospital. "I-I...no. I didn't," he says after a moment. "I saw the heart monitors flatline, but I never actually saw Alex. There were too many people in the way. They rushed me out of the area almost immediately afterwards."

His response is met by several seconds of silence.

"Eagle, are you suggesting that Alex was...?" Fox says finally, trailing off, unable-or unwilling-to finish the thought.

"Never dead to begin with, yeah," Eagle confirms, pointedly not looking up from his hands.

"But how would we not know? Why would he not tell us?"

"If someone went to all the trouble of faking Cub's death, they probably wouldn't want anyone to know he was still alive," Wolf says.

"For that matter, who _would_ fake his death?" Snake adds.

Eagle sighs. "I don't know. It was just an idea," he says. "We should get some sleep. Who knows what'll happen tomorrow."

* * *

The morning comes early, earlier than Snake would have liked. The other three are already downstairs by the time he gets there.

"Nice of you to finally show up," Eagle says, grinning. Snake, however, can see the tension behind his eyes. He's nervous. They all are.

"I guess the thought of seeing your face again was just too much," he returns, more as an anti-stress mechanism than any kind of actual banter, then grabs a piece of toast. "I can eat this on the way. Let's go."

Wolf nods, face emotionless. "It's assault time, boys."

* * *

K-Unit arrives at the safehouse to find H-Unit, a group they had trained beside and know well, and another unit they don't recognize. All eight men are checking their combat gear and weapons.

"K-Unit reporting," Wolf says. Three of H-Unit's four members look up and nod, one of them giving a slight smile. Wolf nods back.

One of the men from the unknown unit approaches them. "K-Unit. Good. I'm Hawk, leader of N-Unit. I'm also in charge of this mission. Your codenames?"

"Wolf, Fox, Eagle, and Snake," Wolf replies, gesturing to each of them in turn. He's heard of N-Unit-they graduated a few years before K-Unit did, and they're good. Hawk nods.

"Start getting your tactical gear on," he orders. "We'll go over the plan as soon as everyone is ready."

"Yes, sir," K-Unit says in unison. They go over to where H-Unit is and start pulling gear off the wall.

Coyote, H-Unit's medic and the best people person Wolf has ever met, grins as they approach. "Nice to see you lot again," he says. "How've you been?"

Eagle, pulling on a bulletproof vest, says, "Pretty good." He leans back so he can see past Coyote. "Hey, where's Ram?"

Coyote's grin falls from his face immediately, replaced by a look of pain. "He died around a year ago," he says. "We were in a major gunfight and someone got in a lucky shot."

"I'm sorry," Wolf says, and means it. He had liked Ram.

"Thanks. We're pretty alright now. But thanks." Coyote smiles again, but it's a far cry from his earlier grin.

Bear, the leader, looks mildly curious, and also seems to want to change the subject. "I thought you were on leave?"

"Special circumstances," Fox replies easily. Wolf wonders, not for the first time, how it is that Fox can answer a question without really giving an answer at all. Must be from his days with MI6.

Unfortunately, thinking about MI6 leads to thinking about the mission they're about to do, which in turn leads him to thinking about Alex. A twisting feeling of anxiety settles itself in his stomach. He does his best to ignore it. He's the leader—he has to stay strong for his unit.

"Hey, stow the chatter," says Hawk. Eagle and Coyote, who had been conversing pleasantly, fall silent.

Wolf checks his gun one last time before sliding it into its place. Hawk looks over. "All of you done?"

Wolf glances back at his unit and nods once. Hawk strides over to a map hanging on the opposite wall. A large rectangular building highlighted in red takes up most of it. A smaller picture of the skull mask hangs next to it (Wolf tries to concentrate on the mask and not what's underneath it.)

"This is our target," Hawk says, indicating the picture of Deathmask, "and this is where we're hoping he'll be. It's an abandoned factory-very large, lots of exits, and lots of machinery to hide behind. The target might be there, and he might not, but we need to be on high alert the entire time."

One of the members of H-Unit-Wolf doesn't know him, he must have replaced Ram-raises a hand. Hawk nods to him. "Tiger, right?"

"Yes," the man-Tiger-confirms. "I was just wondering why three units are going after one man."

"Well, first off, it allows us to cover more ground. Secondly-well, this man is probably one of the most dangerous assassins in the world. If not the most. I've seen his file. Trust me, we'll be glad to have this many men if we actually have to confront him." Hawk looks around, but no one else has any questions.

 _That's Alex he's talking about_ , says a not-very-helpful voice in Wolf's head. Wolf mentally tells it to shut up.

"K-Unit, you'll be going in here. H-Unit, here. N-Unit's going in here," he continues, pointing to three different places on the map. "We're looking for the assassin, or, failing that, any kind of evidence as to his identity or next target.

"Also," he adds. "I've been told that we're to use that ammunition right there"-he points to a table with lots of magazines on it-"and nothing else. Don't ask me why, I don't know. Now, unless there are any more questions, we're moving out in two minutes. Make sure you're ready."

* * *

Wolf, who had spent the entirety of his time in the back of the transport irrationally working himself up, is glad to finally be at the factory. The possibility of combat calms him—that, at least, is something he has some kind of control over. It's not a lot, but it's enough.

K-Unit moves silently to their entry point and waits for the signal.

"One," says Hawk's voice through their earpieces. "Two."

A shot rings out a short distance away, and there's a shout of pain-none of his men, Wolf is relieved to note. Immediately, Wolf presses his Comm button and asks, "What's going on?"

"Hawk's down. Might be dead," reports a voice after a few moments. Someone from N-Unit, probably-Wolf doesn't know the voice. "There's a sniper on the roof. We're taking Hawk inside so we can have a look at him. H-Unit, continue into the building. K-Unit, see if you can get the sniper."

"There's a ladder right there," Fox says, pointing to the side of the building.

"Go up," Wolf orders. "I'll follow you. Snake, Eagle, stay here."

Another shot, but no yell this time. Either it missed, or it had been a perfect death shot.

"And _hurry_."

Fox climbs the ladder as quickly as he dares-it moves a little too easily for his comfort. "I don't think it'll support both of us, Wolf. Wait until I'm all the way to follow."

"Alright."

"Be careful," Snake adds. Fox appreciates the concern, but it doesn't do much for him at the moment.

Thirty seconds or so later, he reports over the Comms, "I'm almost up." He hadn't realized how tall the building is.

Just as he reaches the top, there's an ominous cracking sound, and he manages to roll onto the roof just before the ladder crashes down. Fox curses under his breath as the sniper, who had been lying on his stomach and looking through his rifle scope near the other side of the roof, looks up. Fox quickly draws his gun. "Don't move," he orders, not expecting the sniper to listen.

He's right. Immediately, the sniper springs to his feet and pulls out a handgun. He points it right at Fox. Fox realizes with a feeling strangely akin to being punched that it's Deathmask—Alex. Surely Alex won't shoot him. Alex wouldn't shoot him. Fox starts edging nearer.

"Don't come any closer," Deathmask snaps. Fox stops moving, but his mind seems to be going at double speed. It's Alex's voice—older and distinctly cold and deadly, but Alex's nonetheless.

"Alex, it's me. It's Ben. Put the gun down. Please."

"Why would I do that?" Alex—Deathmask?—says, amusement tinging his voice. "I'd rather not be taken in, thank you very much."

"Alex, please. We thought you were dead. Whatever happened, we can help you."

"Fox, what's happening?" Wolf demands. Fox goes to press his Comm button and reply, but stops immediately when he sees Deathmask's finger tighten on the trigger.

"I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't want your help." Deathmask takes a step back and glances for a split second at the side off the building.

Fox almost shoots, but he hesitates for a moment—after all, it's _Alex_ under that mask. He can't do it.

"Fox, talk to me!" Wolf orders. "What's going on?"

"Alex," Fox says quietly. "Please."

"Who's Alex?"

Fox freezes. It sounds like an honest question. It sounds like he really doesn't know. But...Deathmask _is_ Alex. Fox is sure of it now.

Too late, he realizes that he shouldn't have let his attention slip.

A gunshot sounds.

* * *

Look at me being all mean and stuff. (I'm sorry. Kind of. Just remember—if you kill me, I can't write more. Just saying.)

Reviews are always welcome :)


	3. Found

**A/N:** After one broken sewing machine, the beginning and end of a wild crush on a trombone player, and a ridiculous amount of time spent listening to Hallelujah by Panic! at the Disco, this chapter is finally complete! It's slightly shorter than I was hoping for, and it took longer to update than I meant (not a good combination, I know), and it's all because of marching band, which both I and my beta are a part of. (We got second place and people's choice at the competition, though!) Also, I figured you'd rather have a shorter chapter that resolved the cliffhanger than waiting an extra week for a higher word count.

Just for the record, I'm still not sorry about that cliffhanger (fight me).

* * *

 _"Alex," Fox says quietly._ "Please."

 _"Who's Alex?"_

 _Fox freezes. It sounds like an honest question. It sounds like he really doesn't know. But Deathmask is Alex. He's sure of it now._

 _Too late, he realizes that he shouldn't have let his attention slip._

 _A gunshot sounds._

* * *

Fox flinches, expecting to feel the impact of a bullet at any moment, but it doesn't come. Cautiously, he opens his eyes.

Wolf is standing in front of an open door, gun in hand. And Deathmask is gripping his upper arm, his own gun on the ground. Incredibly quickly, the assassin slings his rifle over his shoulder and vaults the concrete at the edge of the roof. Fox rushes over and looks over the side, half expecting to see Deathmask dead on the ground. However, the assassin seems to be climbing down the—rather sheer—wall. Fox hadn't known Alex could do that.

 _Is it really Alex?_

Before he can put any thought into the matter, Wolf is at his side. "What happened?" he demands. "Why didn't you respond? Why didn't you shoot?"

"He surprised me," Fox replies, slightly defensively.

"And you couldn't deal with it?"

Fox hesitates. Should he tell Wolf that Alex (Deathmask?) hadn't recognized him? It sounds ridiculous, even to him. "Look, I'll explain later. I want to talk to Eagle and Snake, too."

"Fine. We should get back down to ground level."

"You're right."

They head to the door, and Fox wonders just how he's going to explain.

* * *

Back in the main level of the factory, Wolf and Fox find Hawk lying on the ground, pale and unresponsive, his bulletproof vest next to him and the edges of a red stain showing around a wad of gauze. A soldier that Fox assumes is N-Unit's medic kneels next to him, along with Snake and Coyote. The three medics are talking frantically among themselves. The rest of N-Unit hovers nervously nearby; the rest of H-Unit is nowhere to be seen. Dust particles dance through the beams of sunlight from the holes where windows used to be, giving the whole scene a strangely dreamy air.

Fox can't believe he's focusing on dust particles. He supposes it's better than focusing on Hawk, or on what just happened on the roof.

Eagle, leaning against a support beam, looks up as they come closer. "Did you get him?" he asks hopefully.

Fox shakes his head. "No. He...well, he climbed down the side of the building," he tells Eagle, somewhat reluctantly. It's pretty much his own fault that Deathmask or Alex or _whoever_ got away.

"Wish you had," interjects one of the members of N-Unit. "Then we could make sure he got some kind of punishment for shooting Hawk." His voice wavers dangerously at the end of the sentence, but Fox doesn't say a word. He knows how he'd feel if it were Wolf or Eagle or Snake down there bleeding out. He's only known Hawk for a few hours, but he seems like a good man.

"Did you find anything in the sweep?" asks Wolf. Eagle nods, a sudden sorrow on his face.

"We found a dead woman with a note that said, 'For MI6'," he explains. "There'll be a team from MI6 checking later, but the only other things were some food wrappers. Probably from before the assassin started living here."

"Where's H-Unit?" Fox asks.

"Out front waiting for the medical team to get here."

With the exception of the three medics, who are still determinedly trying to keep Hawk stable until the medical team comes, the soldiers stand and wait in silence.

Finally, after what was probably around ten minutes but felt more like hours, two women and a man rush into the building. Two of them hold a stretcher between them, which they immediately move Hawk onto. The third one speaks rapidly to N-Unit's medic.

Snake stands tiredly, attempts to wipe some of the blood off of his hands, and comes over to where Fox is standing with Wolf and Eagle.

"How is he?" Fox asks.

"Not good," Snake replies flatly. "It was almost a perfect shot. Somehow managed to get it in a place that the bulletproof vest didn't cover. But it's not in my hands anymore." He glances down at his hands, which are still streaked with blood, and shakes his head. "So what happened on the roof?"

Fox glances at the N-Unit soldier but decides that the other man probably has better things that he's worrying about. "It was him. Deathmask. I heard his voice. I'm sure it's...him now," Fox says, lowering his voice slightly.

"I'm sensing a 'but' somewhere in that sentence," Eagle says.

"He...he didn't know me." Fox is suddenly hit by doubt—why would Alex not recognize him?—but forces it down. "I tried talking to him, and he didn't seem to acknowledge me as anything but a stranger. I mean, he looked right at me and asked who Alex was. Maybe he was lying, but...why would he? I don't know. It doesn't make sense."

"Add it to the list," Snake says with a sigh.

* * *

"Fox, come on, you need to stop thinking about this," Eagle says. "It's not going to make you feel any better."

Wolf's phone rings. He scowls, pulls it out, and walks a few steps away before answering it. Fox ignores him. "I'm not trying to feel better, I'm trying to find some _sense_." He pauses. "Didn't Alex have some sort of psychopath clone?"

"Yeah, but he died."

"So did Alex!"

" _Ben_ ," Snake says gently. "This isn't going to help us find any answers."

Fox sighs. Snake is right, of course (is he ever not?), but doesn't make him feel any better. "You're right. Sorry. I guess I just don't like it."

"Well," Wolf says, the scowl on his face deeper than ever as he shoves his phone back in his pocket, "I have something you're going to like even less."

"What?"

"MI6 just called. Apparently, we need to go 'discuss a suspicious transfer of funds.'"

"Mission report," Ben explains immediately. "They want to know what happened."

* * *

Both Mrs. Jones and Smithers are waiting when they return to the bank. Mrs. Jones doesn't look up when they enter—she seems too distracted by whatever paper she's frowning at—but Smithers smiles pleasantly. It isn't until Wolf coughs slightly that Mrs. Jones looks up.

"Oh. My apologies. I was writing an official letter of consolation to the family of Agent Williams," she says. Seeing their blank looks, she adds, "The agent Deathmask killed three days ago. Please. Sit down."

They sit.

"I need to know what happened at the factory," she says, leaning forward. "Were you able to identify him?"

"It was Alex," Fox says. "I'm sure of it. I heard his voice."

"Where was this?"

"The roof."

"What did he say?"

"Well, I told him to put his gun down and he refused. He also seemed to have no reaction to me calling him Alex. And I don't think he recognized me."

"Did you shoot him?"

Fox frowns. He had probably been expecting more of a reaction to the whole "he didn't recognize me" thing, if Eagle had to guess. "Uh, no," Fox replies. "If I had shot him, he would have shot me."

"I shot him," Wolf contributes. "I didn't kill him, but I shot him."

"And you used the ammunition that your mission leader told you to?" Smithers verifies.

"I did," Wolf confirms.

"That's excellent," Mrs. Jones says. "Now you can see if it works, Derek."

Eagle glances at the rest of the unit. They all look just as confused as he is. "See if what works?" he asks cautiously.

"The trackers I put on the bullets," Smithers explains brightly.

"You put trackers on the bullets?" Eagle says. He doesn't try to prevent vague disbelief from entering his tone. Making electronics that small that would still report location must have been nearly impossible. "How? And what if he takes the bullet out?"

Smithers nods as he types rapidly. "It's hard to explain, but as long as he was shot, it'll work. Just suffice it to say that we should be able to locate Deathmask any minute now and send a team to retrieve him."

"I'll be getting a full report from someone in N-Unit later, so unless you have anything else to tell me regarding Deathmask, you're dismissed," Mrs. Jones says. "We'll call you if we need you."

"What do you suppose they're going to do once they 'retrieve him'?" Eagle asks as they leave the room. "Put him on trial? Try to get his memory back?"

"If he lost his memory in the first place," Snake points out. Fox frowns.

"Why wouldn't he have?" he asks, not quite harsh, but close. "You think Alex just decided to fake his own death and become an assassin one day?"

"I don't know," Snake says tiredly. "I'm just saying that people usually don't spontaneously forget fifteen years of their life."

"I don't think our Alex would have done this."

"He didn't live with us for that long," Wolf says. "And he didn't really tell us a whole lot about himself. Maybe we just...didn't know him as well as we thought we did."

They return home in silence.

* * *

Across the city, Deathmask sits on a hotel bed, staring blankly at a wall. None of this makes sense.

As soon as he thinks it, he forces the thought out of his head. Hesitation leads to failure. He has no better proof than the bullet wound in his arm. What happened on the roof is unacceptable—he shouldn't have let himself be distracted.

What _had_ distracted him? Sure, that soldier had been there, but it isn't like he hasn't shot people who have gotten in his way in the past. That man shouldn't have been any different.

But he _was_. Deathmask can't explain it, but he had seemed so familiar. He hadn't seen his face thanks to the helmet, but something about the way he had said whatever name it was (Felix? No, Alex) seemed...right.

"Alex," he whispers to himself. It does sound right, like he's used to saying it. But he's never posed as an Alex before, and he's sure he's never met that man.

 _Almost_ sure. Because, despite what he tries to convince himself, the soldier had seemed _so_ , so familiar. He can't shake the feeling that he used to know the soldier. Maybe someone from his past?

But all of the instructors had insisted that he didn't have a past to remember, that he had grown up in the same facility in which he had spent all the time that he knows. This is the first thing he's ever encountered that has suggested to him the possibility that they were lying. Which is ridiculous, of course. There had been an accident, and he just didn't remember.

Right?

The assassin tries to think back to a time before the past three years and is, as he always is, rewarded by a fierce stab of blinding pain through his head that persists for at least thirty seconds. He punches a pillow in frustration.

After another few attempts, all ending the same way, he sighs and lies back on the bed, not bothering with the covers.

Just before he goes to sleep, the face of a man—dark hair, smiling—flashes through his mind, but it disappears almost immediately. He doesn't try to focus on it.

* * *

A door opens, sending a slight eddy of cold air into the room.

Deathmask immediately snaps to consciousness, although no one looking at him would be able to tell. It's a skill that has saved his life many times.

A slight creak as the door is opened wider. Footsteps, soft and light.

Housekeeping would have knocked. A contact would have let him know in advance. Which leaves one main possibility—there's an enemy in his room.

The assassin finds the handle of the knife under his pillow, his breathing never changing. He can hear a second pair of footsteps now.

One of them bumps something, producing a quiet thud, but Deathmask doesn't stir. If they think he's asleep, they won't be on their guard.

"He's asleep," one of them whispers. Looks like he was right.

"He looks really young," the other one replies at the same volume. "Are you sure this is the right room?"

"I'm fairly certain that the half-meter margin of error does _not_ reach the room next door, Morrow."

"I was just saying."

"Well, don't."

In one smooth motion, the assassin pulls the knife out, sits up, sights, and throws. The first agent—at least, he assumes they're agents—falls, dead. The second whirls around and raises his gun.

Deathmask slides off the bed and lunges at the man, knocking the gun out of his hands before the agent can even react. He blocks a punch with ease and quickly puts the man in a chokehold.

"Who sent you?" he hisses. "How did you find me?"

The man says nothing.

Slowly, pulling the man with him, the assassin bends down and pulls his knife from the other agent's body, wiping it on the dead man's jacket. He stands and, without warning, shoves the agent against the outside wall, an arm against his neck to deter him from moving.

Deathmask twirls the knife once before stabbing it into the agent's upper arm. The man lets out a slight gasp of pain. "Let's try again. Who sent you? How did you find me?"

"I'm not going to tell you." The man is British. MI6? Probably.

"Are you sure?" the assassin says, voice deadly. He pushes the knife deeper. "Because I can be very persuasive."

The man pales but nods. "I'm sure," he says, voice slightly strained.

Deathmask shrugs, then immediately punches the man in the face. "Tell me," he snaps.

"No."

He viciously twists the knife, pleased to see the man flinch. "Last chance. How did you find me?"

"I'm not saying," the agent gasps.

"That's too bad." He pulls the knife from the man's arm. The man struggles, kicking wildly, but it does nothing to prevent the assassin from stabbing him. He's dead before he hits the ground.

Deathmask steps back. He would have rather kept the man alive and put some more effort into getting information, but, assuming the men were from MI6, there's going to be backup somewhere. He needs to get out, and quickly.

He looks around, then looks up and grins. A smoke detector. Perfect.

He picks up his bag, drops the knife in, and takes out a lighter. He lights the clothing of both of the men as well as the blankets on the bed and waits.

It doesn't take long for the fire alarm to start blaring. As soon as he hears other people in the hall, he leaves the room, locks the door, and melts into the crowd. There's no way an operative is going to be able to pick him out.

MI6 is going to have to try a whole lot harder than that. After all, he's the best assassin in the world.

They would do well to remember that.

* * *

 **A/N:** I am cruel, but I'm not that cruel. Don't worry, I had no plans to actually kill Fox.

reviews mean a lot :)


	4. Questions

**A/N:** Yikes, long update time. I'm really sorry about that. If it makes you feel any better, I don't have one nor two but _three_ excuses. Marching band (rehearsals after school, football games Friday, competitions Saturday), writer's block (I know what happens after this, I just couldn't figure _this_ out. Luckily, my beta yelled at me and gave me some ideas, and I wrote a random line that was never intended to be related to this but somehow fit in), and Fullmetal Alchemist (I am thoroughly ashamed to admit that in the time it took me to update this, I watched all of Brotherhood, read the first 15 volumes of the manga, and read a ridiculous amount of fanfiction). I'm sorry, guys. I really am.

Good news, though! (ahhh, this author's note is getting longer and longer) I have a mostly completed one-shot in my notebook, ideas for two more, and an idea for another multichapter. So there'll definitely be more AR material from me soon. Ish. Hopefully.

* * *

Paranoia is starting to set in.

He's not being followed, the assassin is almost sure of it. He's dumped the clothes he was wearing. He hasn't been sleeping or staying in one place for too long for any other reason. Somehow, MI6 is still finding him.

How? How on earth are they doing it? It's impossible. Maybe he's just not seeing the tail.

So, after buying a decent amount of food, he goes completely off-grid. He finds a nice abandoned warehouse and cuts off all contact. He doesn't leave the building for anything.

And, still, MI6 finds him, and it's only through pure luck that he escapes. They're tracking him. They have to be.

He goes through everything he carries. He checks every bit of his body. Still, when he checks it, the display on the inside of his mask shows a GPS signal broadcasting less than a half meter away. Maybe it's malfunctioning. After all, it had once spent two weeks telling him his heart rate was over 300 beats per minute.

He can't quite persuade himself of that, though. Maybe it's instinct. Maybe it's just sheer denial.

Regardless, when MI6 finds him again, he's almost expecting it. He isn't expecting them to finally be able to take him in.

When the first soldier enters, he's slower to awake than usual, thanks to a lack of sleep that he hasn't been able to make up. By the time he's surrounded, he's realized his failure. He takes a moment to reprimand himself. Then, immediately, he springs to his feet, analyzing the situation automatically.

Twelve immediate threats. Probably SAS. Highly trained, heavily armed. Four figures standing by the main door, one next to each of the other exits. His visuals are already set to thermal, and, though they're slightly distorted thanks to the walls separating them, he can see the heat signatures of at least eight more people waiting outside.

In the split second it takes him to process it all, the guns of the soldiers around him have snapped to aim at him.

"Remove your mask! Hands where we can see them! Down on your knees!" the one directly in front of him orders.

The assassin laughs. "Do people usually listen to you? Because you're not very intimidating." Hopefully, the remark throws the soldier off guard.

No such luck. Looks like they actually sent someone good. "Get on your knees or we start shooting."

"Last I checked, MI6 wants-" Without finishing his sentence, he lunges at the soldier who had spoken. By the time the rest of them have figured out what's happening, the leader has his own gun at his head. The balance of the gun feels wrong, but the assassin dismisses it.

"I'm going to walk out," he says flatly. "And no one is going to try to stop me. You do anything, he dies."

At least fifteen guns track him as he backs towards the door. He starts thinking through the situation. When he gets out, he'll have to take out the backup. Hotwire the truck? No. Take the key. Or run. Their equipment will slow them down. Take out the fast ones and leave everyone behind. Easy.

Of course, that's when everything goes wrong.

"Now!" the soldier in his grip calls. He attempts to get away, but the assassin holds him tighter.

Several gunshots sound. Several bullets hit the soldier, but two get past, slamming into the assassin and throwing him backwards.

The world fades to black.

* * *

The headache comes first, a dull pounding behind his eyes that doesn't feel like it's going to go away anytime soon. Then, a voice.

"...DNA matches. It's him."

Someone sighs. "I hoped it wouldn't," a different voice says. The assassin feels like he recognizes it, but, like with the soldier, he can't place it. His head gives a burst of pain.

Bands of metal, cold against his skin, secure his wrists, chest, and ankles to the surface he's laying on. They barely allow any movement, something he isn't a fan of.

"Keep him sedated. And notify K-Unit."

K-Unit. It sounds familiar. It sounds like it should mean something to him. But it _doesn't._

In the brief moment of frustration, he forgets to regulate his vitals, and the beeping of what he assumes is a heart monitor jumps in speed.

"He's waking up."

"Don't let him."

A needle enters his arm, and everything fades again.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, there aren't any voices, just the steady beeping of machinery. The headache is gone.

Cautiously, he opens his eyes. There isn't much to see, just more machines and a chair by whatever he's laying on. There aren't any people in the room, but he has no doubt that he's being monitored. Someone was probably notified the moment he opened his eyes.

As if to confirm his suspicions, an agent enters the room, followed by a woman.

He's tired of thinking it, but the woman looks familiar. And the smell that followed her into the room-peppermint?-fits her somehow. It's almost like he knew that she would smell like peppermint. Somehow.

"My name is Mrs. Jones," she says, and the assassin tenses slightly as pain (along with that awful familiarity) shoots through him. Did they do that somehow? Neither one of them had moved, that he's sure of.

Seemingly oblivious, she continues. "I work for MI6."

The assassin says nothing, just stares at her as unsettlingly as he can. She doesn't react.

"Now, I'd like your stay here to be reasonably civil. How far that civility goes is up to you." She pauses as the agent whispers something to her, then nods. "Is there anything you'd like us to call you? A name? Alias?"

"I don't have a name," he replies, completely truthfully. "Whatever ridiculous codename it is that the intelligence community came up with is fine."

The assassin actually likes the name Deathmask, but he isn't going to say that.

"Alright, then, Deathmask it is. Have a lovely sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, she walks out, and soon the assassin is drugged back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Smithers looks up as Mrs. Jones enters. She looks troubled, which isn't surprising considering the circumstances. He sets down the black fabric in his hand and asks the question that he's been dreading the answer to since Deathmask was taken in.

"Is it him?"

Mrs. Jones nods once. "The DNA matches," she says tightly. "Unless someone changed our records, it's him. It's Alex."

Smithers feels all his faint hopes go straight down the drain. Now technology has proven it: Alex is alive, but he's a cold, vicious assassin. Smithers doesn't know if he'd prefer the boy to be dead.

"Have you made any progress on his equipment?" Mrs. Jones asks after a moment of silence. Smithers, grateful for the distraction, nods.

"Most of the weapons aren't anything special, although this knife has a particularly nasty electrical option that I really would love to be able to replicate. The rifle collapses to an incredible fraction of its size," he reports. "And the mask...well, I just started on it, but it's quite frankly amazing. It tried to shut down when I touched it. I had to do some serious work to get it to start up again."

"It shut down?" Mrs. Jones asks. "It isn't just a mask, is it?"

"Definitely not. It's full of amazingly sophisticated electronics. Almost as good as mine." Smithers picks up a remote and a screen immediately turns on, displaying a complicated circuitry map. "It has no fewer than six visuals options, picks up GPS and wireless signals, monitors the vitals of anyone the wearer is looking at, can tap into communications automatically, and has voice modification capabilities," Smithers continues. "Also, it has a GPS tracker in it, which I of course disabled."

"And that part highlighted in red?" Mrs. Jones asks, gesturing to the diagram on screen.

"I'm not sure," Smithers admits, somewhat reluctantly. "I think it monitors brain activity, but it isn't linked to the visual display at all. Might be some kind of anti-stress feature."

Mrs. Jones nods. "Keep working on it. The results from from the other tests should be coming in soon."

Smithers nods, and immediately his attention is again taken by the mask. He doesn't particularly care about the results of the physical tests, and from the tone of Mrs. Jones's voice, she's just about done with the conversation.

He's right. After a polite "goodbye", she leaves.

* * *

Once they're alerted, K-Unit wastes no time heading to the bank. Fox doesn't know about the others, but he's been on edge since Deathmask escaped the first time.

Mrs. Jones is waiting just inside the entrance when they get there, an unusual occurrence.

(Actually, the entire situation with Alex and _everything_ is an unusual occurrence, but Fox ignores that.)

"K-Unit," she greets. "We have news."

Not good news. Not bad news. Just _news_. Fox doesn't know what to think about that.

Silently, she sets off, and K-Unit follows at equal volume. Fox can see Eagle becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

"What's the news?" Eagle asks, just as they enter the lift. He's never done well with silence.

"My apologies. I didn't want to tell you in the lobby." Mts. Jones presses a thumb against a panel to the side of numbers, then says clearly, "Level three." The lift begins to rise.

"We have him," she then says.

There's a moment of shocked silence. Then, they all start asking questions at once.

"How?"

"Is he alright?"

"Why weren't we involved?"

"Has he said anything?"

Mrs. Jones holds up a hand and waits for the almost instantaneous silence to fall. "We had a brief conversation. I don't believe he knew who I was, or if he did, he hid it well. And the data we do have is...strange to say the least."

The lift doors open, and Mrs. Jones leads them out into a bland gray hallway. It's a section of the building that Fox has never seen before.

"Where are we?" he asks.

"Detention level," she replies. "We keep a few cells here, just in case. They aren't used very often."

Fox glances into the open door of one of the empty cells. A metal chair sits in the center, surrounded by some rather suspicious-looking stains.

He immediately averts his gaze. He'd rather not think about MI6 interrogating Alex. Deathmask. Whichever.

He's still having a hard time with the whole Alex-is-alive-and-also-a-deadly-masked-assassin thing.

"Here," Mrs. Jones says suddenly. She indicates a metal door much like the others, with the exception of the two (very heavily) armed guards on either side. With a small card taken from inside her jacket, Mrs. Jones unlocks the door.

Fox doesn't particularly want to just walk in, and from the fact that the rest of his unit is still behind him, they don't want to either. He's afraid of what he'll find.

 _Screw this_ , he thinks suddenly. He follows her in.

Three more guards stand in front of another, much more fortified door. A large computer monitor shows Alex, dressed in what looks like hospital clothes, attached to more sensors than Fox cares to count. He's sleeping, a calm expression on his face that reminds Ben of all the nights he coaxed Alex back to sleep after the teen had a nightmare.

Immediately, he pushes those images out of his head. Thinking of what used to be brings back the pain of Alex's death-or disappearance, or whatever had happened-all over again.

"Can we go in?" he asks.

"Absolutely not," Mrs. Jones says immediately. "He's dangerous. And, in this state, not exactly what I'd call trustworthy."

He sighs. It's a fair point. But he never really stopped missing Alex when he was gone, and it hurts to have him this close. They're separated by only a door, but he has to remember that three years of unknown trauma is involved too. This isn't the same Alex he lost.

He doesn't know it, but the rest of the unit is thinking along similar lines.

"Come on, Fox," says Snake, as gently as he can. "We should go."

"Yeah," he agrees reluctantly.

* * *

"Ma'am, I think interrogation is the obvious next step," says Agent Cohen, one of the most senior agents Mrs. Jones has. Generally, she respects his opinion. Now, however, is not one of those times. He doesn't understand. How can he? He never knew Alex, at least Alex before all of... _this_ happened.

"I refuse to interrogate him," she says firmly.

"Why?" Cohen demands. "He's an internationally wanted criminal. You've seen the files. You know what he's done. He's a _monster_."

Mrs. Jones remains impassive, though she can't help but feel a pang at the word monster being applied to Alex. "He's Alex," she says. "Agent Rider is one of our own."

"Not anymore. All due respect, ma'am, but I think you have a bit of a blind spot-"

Mrs. Jones stands up suddenly, slamming her hands on the table-an unusually emotional display. "This is my decision, Cohen, and I say no interrogation! I'm not daft, I haven't completely disregarded it, I just refuse to permit it at this moment! There's something here that doesn't feel right, and if I can figure it out..."

"I think you're making a mistake," Agent Cohen says bluntly. He stands. "If I may be dismissed?"

"You may," she says.

As soon as he leaves, she sits down and allows herself to slouch a bit, striving to calm her hands still shaking with anger. Maybe she does have a soft spot for Deathmask- _Alex_ -but she thinks his lack of memory is something that can be fixed. Alex isn't gone. She refuses to believe it. Refuses with all her heart.

* * *

The next morning, a much more calm, cool, and collected Mrs. Jones prepares herself to speak to the world's deadliest assassin.

To someone she once considered almost a son.

* * *

Deathmask isn't complaining, but he does wonder why he hasn't been subjected to starvation or isolation or torture. Maybe MI6 is above that?

No, they aren't. He doesn't think he could explain why, but he knows that there aren't a lot of things they're above. No, they're not holding back because of morals. He doubts they had any to begin with.

Why, then? He has no idea.

He adds it to his list of things he has no idea about. It's too long for his liking.

First: Alex. Even thinking the name makes his head give a twinge. The soldier on the roof (Ben, hadn't he said?) called him Alex several times, and he didn't seem uncertain at all.

 _"We thought you were dead."_ The words keep running through his mind. The we seems significant. There's a group involved somehow.

Or a unit.

 _Where did that come from_? He has no idea why, but "unit" fits better than "group".

Anyway, there's a unit. And they thought he- _no, Alex_ , he corrects himself-was dead. The soldier seemed sure that he should be dead. That he was dead.

No. Is dead. Because Deathmask isn't Alex. Alex, whoever he is, is dead. Deathmask is not. He's here. He's alive. He's...

 _doubting._

Because there are other things, too. Like, why does he feel like he should know the soldier on the roof? Why does he know the smell of peppermint goes alongside that woman like smoke with fire?

Why can't he remember most of his life?

Why does his head hurt every time he tries?

Why is MI6 leaving him be?

Why? Why? _Why?_

Why does he feel like all of it is connected?

He feels the now-almost-familiar coolness in his arm as the drug enters his system, and as he drifts off into an unwilling sleep, he can't stop thinking.

Why?

* * *

 **A/N:** I feel like there's not a lot in this chapter, but it was all stuff I had to put here. Hopefully the next chapter will be longer (and won't take as long to update) and more plot-y but I make no promises.

comments/love/predictions/whatever are always welcome!


	5. Lack of Answers

**A/N:** cries because finals

This was still a faster update time, though (please love me I'm doing my best).

Also, quick note because I've had questions about this and keep forgetting about them: yes, this is loosely (very loosely) based off the Winter Soldier. Obviously, I'm not using every plot detail or anything like that, it's just where I got the general idea for the fic.

* * *

 _It's not real. None of it is._

 _It's how he's managed to make it this long without losing his mind. The knowledge that everything could be a hallucination terrifies him. Every sensation could be a lie._

 _So he just assumes that all of them are. It's the easiest way to be sure that he'll never get his hopes up and subsequently have them dashed to pieces._

 _The man who cuts and cuts until blood covers his entire torso and his only thought is pain? Not real. The awful ringing and whispering and_ voices _in his ears? They aren't there. The woman whose voice is soothing and horrifying all at once who tells him soon, soon he won't have to remember any of it? She doesn't exist. K-Unit never came and then abandoned him. He never lost an arm millimeter by millimeter while his yells and screams echoed around him. His world is illusion after illusion, lie after lie, and all by his choice. Subject 241-no, his name is Alex, the people who refer to him like he's a lab experiment are just in his head-is doing his best to stay sane. And it's working. For now._

 _He thinks._

* * *

The assassin's eyes snap up to meet hers the moment she steps in the door. "Hello, Deathmask," she says.

"Mrs. Jones," he replies tonelessly. "Nice of you to drop in. Is this just a social visit, or...?"

"I have some questions." All of her willpower is concentrated on making sure her voice is hard and doesn't shake like it so badly wants to. "Now, you can answer them, or we can do it another way. Less preferable for both of us."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, I've done this speech before myself. I can tell you or you can torture me. But," he says, leaning forward the tiny amount that the restraints allow him, "I was thinking more of an...exchange," he suggests. "I have some questions of my own. Maybe if you answer mine, I'll answer yours."

"I don't negotiate with prisoners. I'm sorry. No deal. Now, who do you-"

"Please."

For a moment, Mrs. Jones stops short, one eyebrows raised. She hadn't been expecting that. _And_ , she tells herself firmly, _he probably knows that so get it together_. "No exchange. My word is final. Who do you-"

"I need to know!" There's a hint of desperation in his tone, but Mrs. Jones ignores him and continues on.

"Who do you work for? Who hired you?"

His eyes lose all of the emotion that they held before, returning to the blank, ice cold gaze she had spent hours staring at in the picture that had started this whole thing. He slumps back and doesn't reply.

"Did anyone assist you?"

Silence.

"Would you like to tell me anything at all?"

"No. I don't. And I'm not going to. Hate to be a disappointment," he says. "I'll see you next time when the torture happens."

"I never said anything about torture."

"You didn't have to. I've done this before. In fact," he says almost thoughtfully, "a week ago I do believe I did this routine with one of your agents. I think she said her name was Rebecca Cortez, but it was hard to tell what with all the screaming she was doing. She kept telling me she had a family, although you'll be oh so proud to know that she didn't tell me anything else. How are they, by the way? Have you told them yet? Told her children how their mother died, bleeding and begging at my hands while she-"

"That's enough," she interrupts. He's trying to unsettle her, and she knows it. But it's still working. "What are you trying to say?"

"You don't scare me," he says bluntly. "Nothing you can do will ever scare me."

"Hm. Well, goodbye, Deathmask. I'll be seeing you soon." Her voice stays steady, but it's a close call.

She turns to go, and she's almost out the door before his voice calls out one more time.

"She died alone and powerless. And you will too."

Mrs. Jones doesn't react. "Goodbye," she says again, and leaves.

* * *

"Yes. Tell him to check the information of the body from the warehouse against Rebecca Cortez's, please. Yes, it's fine. I'll wait." Mrs. Jones turns speakerphone off and turns her attention to Agent Cohen, who has been glaring at her from the other side of her desk nearly the entire time she's been speaking. "What is it, Cohen?" she asks disinterestedly, glancing over a piece of paperwork in front of her.

"I just saw the recording. That wasn't an interrogation."

"I asked him questions, did I not?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

She sighs and signs her name to the paper. "I'm not going to order torture. You can stop asking."

"For any other prisoner you would have already done so," Cohen says, crossing his arms. "The man in there isn't Agent Rider, ma'am, he's an assassin. He kills people. He killed Agent Cortez."

"Yes, and I got that information from him without torture, didn't I?" For the first time since he's been in her office, she looks up at him. There's a surprising amount of anger on his face. She can't tell if it's directed towards her or towards Deathmask. "I won't authorize it. I'm sorry. You're dismissed."

He doesn't move. "You're not going to make that deal with him, right?"

"I figured I'd see what he wanted to ask first."

"You're making a mistake, Jones."

"If I am, I will take full responsibility for it. Now, _you're dismissed_."

Furiously, Cohen turns around and leaves. Mrs. Jones shakes her head slightly and signs another piece of paperwork. She doesn't know why he's so upset, but he is out of line. Her decisions are final. He needs to stop questioning them.

She turns speakerphone back on.

"Ma'am. Ma'am? Are you there?" says the agent on the phone.

"Yes, I'm here."

"The body has been positively identified as Rebecca Cortez's."

"Thank you," Mrs. Jones replies, and hangs up. It's good to know. Agent Cortez had gone MIA on a basic surveillance mission a few weeks ago, and they hadn't anything from her since. Mrs. Jones had done her best to remain optimistic about her agent's fate, but apparently all of that optimism had been for naught.

On her computer, she pulls up the letter she had written to Agent Williams's family. She could probably just change the name and use it again. Technically, everyone's supposed to get the exact same letter. But she's never liked that. It feels too impersonal, too uncaring.

She closes out the letter, opens a new one, and starts typing.

* * *

 _OFFICIAL MEDICAL REPORT:_

 _Subject: Deathmask (alias)_

 _Doctor in charge: Katherine Mennoe, M.D. (clearance level 8)_

 _Assisted by: Jacob Kinsey (chemist, clearance level 7), John Porter (medical assistant, clearance level 8), Rachael Gakley (microbiologist, clearance level 7)_

 _183 cm, 91 kg. Body fat approximately 5% (lower than average)._

 _Subject's blood contains abnormal levels of a chemical compound that could not be fully identified (close to C21H27FO5). Levels of iron slightly higher than average. Blood type A positive. White blood cell count slightly higher than average. Platelet count average. Red blood cell count slightly higher than average (possibly due to unidentified chemical compound)._

 _Bullet scar (abt. four years old) approximately two cm above heart. Scars from burns on back. Other scars suggesting torture. Recent bullet wound on upper right arm._

The report continues for several pages, pages which Mrs. Jones really can't convince herself to read. A skim gives her all she wants to know:

Nearly every detail sounds like Alex. But he sounds...drugged. There are plenty of chemical formulas scattered throughout the report (although none have any explanation of what exactly they are), and apparently Deathmask has "abnormal brain activity" (again, though, no explanation of what that entails).

The main thing that comes to mind is honestly...well, it sounds ridiculous even when she thinks it, but...brainwashing?

Who would have technology like that, though? No federal government would ever sanction it (at least, not officially). She can't think of anyone in the world who's that advanced (and that list includes Smithers). It sounds like a thing of fantasy novels and comic books and most definitely not something that's real.

But she can't deny that, at the moment, it's the best (only) theory she has.

She's going to have to do some research on this.

* * *

"I thought you had gone to bed. Shouldn't you be asleep?"

Without looking up, Fox replies, "What are you, my mother?"

"I'd like to think I'm prettier."

He still doesn't look up. "Whatever makes you feel good about yourself."

Snake sits next to Fox at the table. "Don't tell me you're still looking at those files," he sighs. "There's no point. You're just making yourself more upset."

"I have to!"

Snake yawns. "What are you even looking for?"

"I don't know, okay?" Fox sets the file in his hand down and runs his hand through his already messy hair. "An explanation? Some sign of...I don't know."

"Alex?"

Silently, Fox nods.

"What makes you think you'll find anything?"

Fox sighs. "Honestly? Nothing. Wishful thinking, I guess. You guys didn't know him very well before Egypt. I mean, I guess I didn't either, but I saw enough during the mission we had together to be reasonably sure that he isn't a killer."

"Is that something you can really know about someone?"

"Wow. Deep." Fox crosses his arms on the table and puts his head down on them. "It's too late for me to be contemplating stuff like that, Snake."

"Technically it's early."

"Whichever."

"You should go to sleep," Snake urges. "We're going back to the bank tomorrow. You need to be well-rested."

"Yeah. I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right."

* * *

Sometimes he hates his training.

Maybe Mrs. Jones wouldn't have agreed to the deal, but they were at least speaking. Relatively politely, too. As soon as she got a question out, his training had kicked in. All the ways he had ever learned to resist interrogation had suddenly become the only thing on his mind.

Why _does_ his training always wipe out everything else in his head?

No, no, he can't start thinking about those questions again now. He has more important things to worry about. Like...getting answers.

No. No! Getting out of here. His first priority when captured is revealing nothing. Second is getting information. Third is disposing of anyone who saw his face. Fourth is getting out.

That's his training. That's what he has to follow.

The door slams open.

The assassin levels his gaze on the agent in the doorway. He looks angry, though it's not his expression as much as his body language. His arms are crossed (are his hands shaking?), his muscles tense. And he's holding something that the assassin imagines probably wouldn't feel great if it were applied. "I assume this is the torture part?" he says emotionlessly.

The agent doesn't respond, just closes the door behind him. Deathmask raises an eyebrow. "Well, that's rude," he says. "I was at least hoping for some-"

He's interrupted by a hard punch to his face.

"Ouch," he says disinterestedly.

"You killed her," the agent says in a tight voice, almost like he's trying not to cry. The assassin raises an eyebrow.

"You're going to have to be a little more specific than that."

If anything, the remark seems to infuriate the agent, who snaps a switch on the side of whatever it is he's holding. Immediately, Deathmask chooses a spot on the ceiling and focuses on it.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath-

Cold metal touches his arm, and, as pain courses through his body, he lets out a scream. If he's not going with complete silence, he may as well. It's a good method for coping with the pain.

When it stops, he glances down at his arm. Electrical burn—just like he had thought. "You know, I can't answer any questions if you don't ask them," he tells the agent, keeping his tone neutral.

"I'm not here to ask any questions," the agent snaps.

"Then, if you don't mind my asking, why are-"

"Shut up!" the agent exclaims. "You don't-you..." His hands are back to shaking, and for a moment all that comes out of his mouth is a blend of various expletives. "You...you killed..."

"I've killed a lot of people," Deathmask says coldly. He thinks he knows what's going on here. This agent is going for some kind of emotional manipulation, the desperate, even out-of-control act combined with the implication that someone close to him is dead by the assassin's hand meant to imply that he's capable of doing anything. "It's my job, in case you hadn't noticed. And I'm good at it."

"The woman in the warehouse." The man's voice is shaking now too. The first pricklings of doubt begin to form in the back of the assassin's mind. Either this is some of the best acting he's ever seen, or the agent is telling the truth.

"Oh, her," the assassin remarks casually.

His tone earns him two punches to the stomach. Deathmask thinks a rib might have cracked. "She was a good person!"

"That has literally never stopped me before. I follow orders. I don't care who it is."

"That was it?"

"I needed information." The assassin shrugs. "She was there."

The agent electrocutes him again, for longer this time. "Whose orders?" he demands.

"You seriously expect me to-"

Another shock interrupts him. He's getting tired of the interruptions, honestly.

"Look, if you keep cutting into my sentences I'm _definitely_ not going to tell you anything," the assassin says. "I mean, it's just plain _rude_."

"You _kill people_."

"You say that like it means I can't have manners."

The agent swears at him—rather aggressively, too.

"Language," the assassin reprimands mildly. Inwardly, he wonders at what point he should stop antagonizing him. Even if the agent is faking this whole you-killed-someone-I-was-close-to thing (which the assassin isn't sure that he is) it won't be long until he gives up trying to restrain his (fake?) anger.

Suddenly the agent leans in close, his voice dangerously quiet. "Look, either you start talking or this gets a lot worse." He wraps his fingers around the wrappings of the assassin's bullet wound and presses hard.

Deathmask pauses, reanalyzing his situation. When the agent had first come in, he had been angry and therefore not thinking clearly. Now, though, he seems more in control.

And more dangerous.

That's something that he's found changes from person to person-some people are worse when they're calm and rational, while others are unstoppable when they're angry. This man is definitely the former. Which means he needs to get the agent angry again. Time to hope he isn't lying about caring for the woman he killed in the warehouse.

"She was pathetic," the assassin says suddenly.

The agent freezes. "What?"

"The woman I killed. Rebecca Cortez." He's pleased to see the agent's fists clench at the name. "She kept begging me to stop. In between the screams, of course. There was blood dripping from her fingertips. Actually, there was blood everywhere. I-'

" _Shut up_!" the agent practically screams, punching him several more times. The assassin accepts the blows without reaction. Punches are preferable to electricity any day.

Unfortunately, just as he thinks that, the agent electrocutes him again. And again. And again.

"You don't even deserve to talk about her!" the agent continues. It's the angriest Deathmask has seen him yet.

The assassin is actually starting to be slightly worried about the electricity. He can take the pain, but it's definitely possible that his systems won't be able to take the shock (literally). Maybe making the agent angry was a mistake.

"How are her kids?" he manages to get out between shocks. The pain is making it hard to concentrate-not impossible, but incredibly difficult. "I know she has some, she used them to try to get me to stop enough. Not that it made a difference, I mean-"

Another punch makes him close his eyes, and when he opens them again there's a gun pointed right at his head.

Okay. This was definitely a mistake.

* * *

K-Unit follows their escort—not Mrs. Jones, because she apparently had something going on and would meet them at the cell with "important information"—through the lobby of the bank. Honestly, Fox doesn't think that that really need the escort, but apparently they don't have the security clearance to be without her.

The agent gets into the lift, allows the panel to read her fingerprint, and says, "Three." She then proceeds to coolly ignore K-Unit all the way up.

The door opens, revealing the same bare gray hallway as before. The agent leads them down it and gestures to the right door. "Just for the record," she says before she swipes an access card, "I think he should be killed, not kept here."

Wolf looks like he's about to punch her, but Snake lays a calming hand on his arm and he refrains. Fox sighs and opens the door.

And freezes.

For there, shown on the computer monitor, is an agent holding a gun to Deathmask's blood-covered face.

Holding a gun on Alex.

* * *

"Jones!"

Mrs. Jones looks up from the printouts in her hands to see Wolf, standing outside the door of Deathmask's cell and looking absolutely furious. "Captain. What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? _What's wrong_? What's wrong is that your _agent_ -"

"None of my agents are here." Mrs. Jones is confused, to say the least. Wolf is angry, that's for sure, but...why? She hurries her pace until she stands outside the door and looks in.

Agent Cohen. She should have known, she should have-

Immediately, she pushes past Daniels, swipes her access card, and slams open the door.

"Agent Cohen! _Stand down_!"

Agent Cohen doesn't move. "I told you that you were making a mistake. He deserves to die. He doesn't deserve to be breathing right now. He's a _monster_!"

"That's a little harsh," Deathmask gasps suddenly, his head falling against his chest. He coughs. "I'll have you know that breathing is actually extremely p-painful right now, so-"

Suddenly, Daniels is at Mrs. Jones's side, fists clenched. It makes sense that he would react so strongly to the voice, but she needs to make sure he doesn't do anything he'll regret.

"Daniels," she says, her voice quiet but with a tone of warning contained there as well.

"If you hurt him any more," Daniels says angrily, "I swear I will-"

Deathmask suddenly pulls his head back up, looking confused. Mrs. Jones dismisses it.

" _He killed my little sister_!" Cohen almost-screams.

Silence reigns for a second before Mrs. Jones manages to say, "Agent Cortez?"

"Rebecca! Yes, he-"

Suddenly, Deathmask interrupts, his voice sounding the closest to Alex's that Mrs. Jones has heard it yet. "B-Ben?"

There's a sharp intake of breath from Daniels that's echoed by the other three men in the unit.

"I think I...I think I remember you," he continues, and promptly falls unconscious.

The room is silent.

* * *

 **A/N:** Ah, cliffhangers. What would I do without them.

This chapter was longer than the others (though not tons). This is a decent chapter length, right? Or would you prefer longer chapters with longer waits?


	6. Escape

**A/N:** well, I'm…..really really really sorry. lots of factors contributed to this wait time. writers' block? check. school? yep. getting into the star wars/stormpilot fandom and writing a bunch for that? you know it. in summary, I'm really sorry, and here you go.

* * *

 _Suddenly, Deathmask interrupts, his voice sounding the closest to Alex's that Mrs. Jones has heard it yet. "B-Ben?"_

 _There's a sharp intake of breath from Daniels that's echoed by the other three men in the unit._

 _"I think I r-remember you," he continues, and promptly falls unconscious._

 _The room is silent._

* * *

The silence is broken abruptly by a clattering as Wolf knocks Cohen's gun out of his hands. Mrs. Jones takes a deep breath, brings herself to her senses. "Restrain him," she orders.

With hands that she has extremely under control, thank you very much, she takes out her phone. "Where are the guards who were stationed outside of cell two-one-eight-seven?" she demands the instant the other end picks up.

"Um, I - who is this?"

"Your _boss_ ," she says forcefully. "Authorization two-one-four-five-three. Tell me where they are."

"O-okay, ma'am, just a moment." There's a pause, keys tapping in the background, and then the man says, "They were dismissed an hour ago by a Matthew Cohen."

"Of course they were," Mrs. Jones mutters. She has no idea how she's going to deal with this.

"Ma'am?"

"Send two more people down right away."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you," she says, and hangs up abruptly.

"Jones," says Wolf. "Where would you like us to take him?"

Wolf is holding one of Cohen's arms; Eagle has the other. Cohen himself looks furious, hands still shaking with anger.

"We're going to go to my office," Mrs. Jones decides. "Discuss this in a better environment."

* * *

Once they enter the office, Wolf and Eagle release Cohen, but they don't leave. They hover just behind the chair, while Fox and Snake stand by the door. Cohen sits, adjusts his tie. There's blood on it, Mrs. Jones notes absently. Deathmask's? Alex's?

She sits behind her desk and takes a moment to collect herself before saying in a tight, controlled, voice, "What exactly do you call that?"

"I'd call it justice, ma'am."

"Really." Mrs. Jones takes a peppermint from a drawer and slowly unwraps it.

"Really."

"Because I'd call it subordination. Maybe treason."

There is no remorse in Cohen's eyes. "He killed-"

"Yes, I know!" Mrs. Jones stands up and barely manages to not slam a fist onto the desk. "He killed your sister. He's killed lots of people. That's not relevant. What is is that you disobeyed a direct order."

This is the angriest Mrs. Jones has ever seen Cohen. Actually, it's the most emotional she's ever seen him at all. People in their business tend not to show emotion, and - up to this point - he's been no exception.

"It's not my fault I'm the only one who's seeing clearly! All of you are too emotionally attached to this _Alex_ to realize that he's dangerous!"

Wolf snorts. "Right, because you obviously have no emotional stake in this at all."

"I'm not saying I don't! All I'm saying is that I have _different_ emotions regarding him and it might be worth listening to someone else's opinion for once, Jones!"

Mrs. Jones is careful not to display the anger that flashes through her. Alan Blunt had only ever listened to one person besides himself - her. She prefers to listen to three or four people, if possible. But the final decision is always hers, and Cohen is - or at least should be - well aware of that. "You know very well that I listen to your opinion before I make any major decision. That doesn't mean that I have to agree with it. And it most certainly does not mean that you get to disobey my orders."

Cohen opens his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Jones holds up a hand.

"I understand that you're upset - we're all upset, trust me, but what you did is absolutely unacceptable. Regardless of how you feel, he's an asset, and I'm sure we can get useful information from him. What if you had killed him, Cohen? Would it truly avenge Agent Cortez? Deathmask takes orders from someone. They're just as responsible for Cortez's death as he is. And without him, we can't find them. And there will be more deaths - more Rebeccas - if we don't."

Cohen slumps in the chair. "I suppose you're right," he admits. "I shouldn't have pointed a gun at him. It endangered the possibility of gaining intelligence."

Mrs. Jones relaxes slightly, though she doesn't allow it to show.

"But I refuse to apologize for anything else. He deserved that. He deserved worse."

Fox conceals it well, but Mrs. Jones still sees the anger in his eyes. She takes a deep breath. "Consider yourself suspended until further notice," she tells Cohen.

"I'm one of your best people!" he objects. There's a derisive snort from Wolf.

"That's why it's until further notice and not permanent! Now, are you done questioning me?" Mrs. Jones demands.

Cohen scowls. He doesn't reply for a few seconds, and Mrs. Jones is afraid he's going to continue to be defiant. Finally, however, he slumps in his chair and says, "Yes, ma'am."

"You can leave now," Mrs. Jones says. Fox and Snake step away from the door.

Cohen straightens his tie and stalks out.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Jones," offers Fox, then K-Unit leaves as well.

Mrs. Jones sits and stares at the wall, unwrapping another peppermint.

"So do I," she murmurs. "So do I."

* * *

 _He remembers...what does he remember?_

 _There are four men at a full, well-lit table - five, if he includes himself - and they are smiling. Talking. Laughing. A feeling of safety pervades the atmosphere._

 _They are happy._

 _"How come Wolf keeps getting dates?" one of the men demands, prompting the man across from him to roll his eyes. "Even Alex gets more than I do, and he barely goes out!"_

 _Alex, he thinks. That's me._

 _And the man who's talking is..._

 _Eagle. Yes, that's right. His name is Eagle. Or...Connor, but Eagle sounds right. Better._

 _The man beside Eagle - it takes Alex a moment to remember, but it comes to him, same as Eagle's name had, that's Fox, or Ben, and they both sound right this time - laughs. "Maybe Wolf is just incredibly more attractive than you."_

 _"He is not!"_

 _"Alex, what do you think?" says...Fox. "You haven't said much. I-"_

 _Suddenly, the scene around him lurches, the table replaced by a metal one with a variety of syringes and other things he'd rather not consider on it. Fox's face and voice morph into someone else's._

 _"You haven't said much," is said again, but it's different. The feeling of safety has vanished, and instead there is barely-concealed panic. "Do you need some coercing, Subject Two-Forty-One?"_

 _He's cold and it's dark and all he wants to do is ask what happened to Eagle and Fox, but he can't seem to control his own actions. "You can't make me talk," he says instead, except it doesn't really feel like him, not quite. It isn't him. It_ was _him._

 _"Ah, but I'm not trying to make you talk." The man selects a syringe, injects Alex, and there is pain pain pain pain and screaming that must be his own._

 _And nothing._

* * *

He jerks awake to the sound of rapid beeping that must be his heart rate. Confusion is the overwhelming sensation, though it's definitely accompanied by pain - from his ribs, his face, plenty of places.

His name - what's his name? He can't remember. He thinks it was in the dream he just woke up from. Alec? It sounds close.

But then there's a white-hot stabbing pain in his skull, and he forgets all thoughts of trying to remember anything.

It clears after maybe thirty seconds. He blinks some dancing black spots out of his vision and looks around. He was trying to...

Escape. Right. That's what he has to do. Retrieve any possible intelligence. Recover any captured technology. Get out. Report.

If possible, kill anyone who saw his face.

That one might be difficult, but, well...he'll have to see.

He looks down at the restraints holding his wrists. He can probably get out of them.

The assassin checks if either wrist has more space than the other, then pulls out his right. He ignores the snap of bone and only barely winces. He makes no sound-no point in drawing unnecessary attention.

They've changed his clothes - even his underwear - which is most certainly inconvenient, as it means he has none of his equipment. He'd really prefer not to break his other hand - it's easier to shoot with a hand that isn't injured - but he will if he has to. The mission is more important, after all.

The assassin does a brief once-over of himself. His ribs are in bad shape, though he's uncertain if they're broken or just bruised. His arm still aches where the soldier shot him.

 _Wolf_.

He blinks. Wolf? Where did that come from? Is that supposed to be a person's name?

His head gives another sharp throb. The assassin scowls. That's something else to add to the list of problems, along with his now-broken hand and various bruises and burns from that agent. Cohen? Yes.

The assassin definitely wouldn't mind putting a bullet in Cohen.

He files the thought away for later and insists his surroundings.

He's being monitored by several machines, beeping and humming next to him. There's an IV in his arm, and-

An IV in his arm. Of course.

He pulls it out and inspects the needle. It's thin and not ideal, but what part of this is really ideal? He lives and deals in not ideal. That's what makes him good at what he does.

He picks and opens the other restraint in less than seven minutes. Really, this is too easy. MI6 should know better.

A couple of the machines start alarms when he disconnects the sensors attached to him, but he zones it out.

A guard comes in, and the assassin analyzes him instantly. Light body armor, a gun in his hand and one at his side, probably more weapons that he can't see. The guard assumes a defensive posture - which is a surprise, as the assassin would expect him to be on the offense. He doesn't dwell on it, instead dealing a quick strike to the man's wrist and catching his gun at it falls. He shoots the guard neatly between the eyes.

The man had been carrying a knife, which the assassin takes in his injured hand. He leaves his steadier one to shoot. He also takes the man's radio, clipping it onto his belt in hopes that it'll be of some use later.

The assassin expects to emerge into a corridor. Instead, he finds himself in another room, larger than the one he had been in before, with two more guards, a computer, and a major security system - not activated, at least not yet - on the door.

His only chance is getting out of that door before the security activates. And one of the guards is leaning towards the keyboard.

The assassin shoots him immediately. The door remains unsecured, but there's another guard almost right on him, too close to shoot. He flips his knife, wincing a bit as his injured hand twists, and drives it into the guard's neck.

An alarm starts blaring, which means someone else has noticed what's going on. Which also means he needs to go - immediately.

He gets through the door just in time and sprints down the corridor (because he is actually in a corridor now), doing his best to ignore his aching ribs and throbbing hand. He has the disadvantage here - MI6 can track his every move, and he doesn't even know how to get around. This whole thing is getting steadily worse.

The guard's radio is static-y, probably set to the wrong frequency, but he can't exactly stop and fiddle with it now. He keeps running.

The assassin turns a corner and finds himself face to face with an agent. He isn't sure who's more startled.

She recovers quickly, but he recovers faster. She's dead before she can say a word.

The assassin knows it's only a matter of time before he runs into someone else. He needs to find his mask and weapons and he needs to get out.

The only problem - he has no idea where he's going. He assumes he's in the secret area of the bank that serves as the headquarters of Special Operations, considering the head herself had been to see him, but that doesn't help him with the floor plan.

Getting out of the detention area is probably a good start. There's an elevator at the end of the hallway that can probably get him out, but getting in it is essentially a death sentence. He'd prefer to avoid that.

He finds stairs instead, then reaches a fork and turns right on instinct - what instinct he doesn't know, but it's not like he has a way to know which way he should go. He's never been here before.

Right?

Before he can dedicate any more time to the thought, four people appear in front of him, all armed. The assassin takes one of them out before they start shooting, but he then has to dodge down a side hallway as more bullets fly.

He takes two more turns, pushing his speed to his absolute limits. His ribs are protesting, but he can't afford thoughts of self-preservation right now.

He turns another corner, and there's suddenly a strange feeling of familiarity. He's sure he's never been here before, but at the same time he knows where he is.

The agents are still behind him when he reaches a dead end, nothing but two doors in front of him. There's no time to hesitate - he can hear one reporting their location, probably over a radio.

Following the same unknown instinct as earlier, he goes through the one on the left, then shuts and locks the door behind him immediately.

He's in a lab, and there's someone else inside - a quite honestly huge man at a computer, staring wide-eyed at the assassin.

"Al-I...what are you doing here?" the man asks.

"Taking you hostage," replies the assassin. "Hands off the keyboard."

The man lifts his hands slowly. "Look, Alex, I don't-"

"Why do people keep calling me Alex!" the assassin explodes. Even as he says it, he's aware of the small corner of doubt in his mind growing larger. The same sense of strange familiarity surrounds this man as had the soldier, the director, and the halls. And his headache is coming back. "My name isn't Alex."

A bolt of pain, this one shorter than the previous ones.

Loud knocks on the door.

The assassin decides to go with the problem that is immediately threatening him - the agents outside.

Keeping his gun aimed at the man, he looks around the room for anything that can help him. And then he sees it - a familiar piece of black fabric on a table against the side wall.

He walks over, picks it up, and looks it over. It looks like it's still in decent shape, and a quick inspection leads him to believe that nothing has been tampered with. He pulls it on.

The displays come to life, recognizing his unique retinal pattern, and the assassin finally feels like he has a chance to get out of here. The man looks surprised.

"Full functionality!" he says. The assassin doesn't reply.

He doesn't see his rifle, but his knife is sitting next to where his mask was. He picks it up and twirls it once, enjoying the familiar weight.

He then places it against the man's throat. The knocking outside has progressed to pounding, probably with some kind of battering ram.

"You're my hostage now," he informs him. "In case you're not familiar with the process, I'll tell you right now: you do anything I don't like, you die. Your friends out there do anything I don't like, you die. You get the idea?"

The man nods. "I understand," he says, and there's something in his tone that the assassin can't quite identify. (It's almost wistful, but that doesn't make sense. Then again, does anything really make sense? He can't explain anything that's been happening.)

The assassin moves behind him so he can use the man as a human shield, not moving the knife from his neck.

The agents outside burst in at that moment, but they freeze when they see the situation.

"Smithers, you alright?" says one.

"He's fine," the assassin snaps, "and he'll stay that way as long as you stay back. And put your guns down."

The agents back away, and the assassin starts edging slowly towards the door. Other than that, everyone is still, the only noise that of the still-blaring alarm.

Keeping the man - Smithers, apparently - between him and the agents he encounters, the assassin manages to get out to a side exit. Somehow. (He still doesn't know why he has some kind of knowledge of the building's floor plans. Maybe his instructors had gone over it and he just...hadn't remembered?) He supposes he's lucky that they don't employ those tranquilizer bullets again.

Once outside, he almost kills the man, but he decides against it (for no reason, really) and hits him hard over the head instead. The man falls, and the assassin runs into a combat team a few minutes later.

He leads them on an elaborate chase through the alleyways, soon leaving them behind.

An hour and a half later, exhausted, he finds a somewhat sketchy but probably safe enough place to catch some sleep.

He thinks about a lot of things before he falls asleep, but mainly his questions-lots and lots of questions.

He's going to find some answers.

* * *

Mrs. Jones sighs, pops a peppermint, and rubs her head in an attempt to ward off an impending migraine.

"He escaped from the middle of our headquarters," she says flatly. "Killed at least how many?"

"Six, ma'am," replies Agent Flowers.

"And gave me quite a headache," contributes Smithers, holding an ice pack to his head.

"Please tell me there's good news," Mrs. Jones says. "Please."

Smithers gestures to the monitor of his computer. "We can still track him."

"For how much longer?"

"Another week or so."

"That's all?" Agent Flowers asks. Smithers nods.

"The trackers are in his bloodstream. They can't last forever. I'm sorry."

"No, Smithers, you're fine." Mrs. Jones eyes her bag of peppermints and decides not to get another. (She does, however, make a mental note to buy more.) "That gives us some time to plan, then. Not a lot. But some."

The other two nod in agreement.

"Well...alright. It'll have to do."

* * *

A woman walks in, the click of her heels almost lost in the hums and beeps and low chatter of the lab.

"Sir," she says, and a man looks up from a diagram he's been studying.

"What is it, Emily?" he asks. His voice is friendly, kind. "Did we finally get that shipment in?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. But, no worries, it's still good news." She leans in, lowers her voice.

"Subject Two-Forty-One is back online."

* * *

 **A/N:** I think I'll try to go with shorter chapters from now on so we don't end up with *cough cough mutter cough* 3 months+ update times again. hope you guys are okay with that.

reviews mean so much :)


	7. Half-Remembered, Half-Forgotten

**A/N:** GUESS WHO'S NOT DEAD, KIDS. also, quick summary because it's been a while - Alex/Deathmask escaped from MI6 holding after being tortured by an agent, and he remembers bits and pieces of his old life.

* * *

 _The scenes change rapidly, so rapidly he can't concentrate on any of them long enough to figure out what's going on._

 _He's yelling at a very gray man, something about being fifteen, while the woman he knows to be Mrs. Jones - younger and with different hair - stands to the side and-_

 _A red-haired woman smiles at him, ruffles his hair and-_

 _A car erupts in a blazing fireball on a screen in front of him, and he screams even as his own face laughs at him, mocking and-_

 _Cold water. Choking. Suffocating. A final darkness, and then harsh light burns his eyes as a smiling man above him welcomes him back._

Back where? _he wants to ask, but the scene is already gone._

* * *

The assassin slips back into consciousness and is more than a little confused to see a kitchen knife pointing at his face. The person holding it is young, probably not more than fifteen.

"Wallet," the boy says. "Unless you fancy this blade in your eye."

The words are said firmly, but between the slightest tremble of the blade's point and the barely-noticeable fear in the boy's eyes, the assassin surmises that he's never actually killed before.

"I'm sleeping in an alleyway," the assassin says quietly. "What makes you think I have any money?"

The boy hesitates, and the assassin uses the split second of opportunity to grab and twist his wrist, forcing him to drop the knife. The assassin picks it up.

"Take my advice," he says to the boy, and even as he says it he isn't sure why he doesn't just stab him then and there, "Stay away from killing. Try pickpocketing, maybe. It's less dangerous. Or try for a shelter. Trust me, kid. You don't want violence ruling your life."

He releases the boy, who immediately runs away, and takes a moment to put some serious thought into...why.

He knows the basics of why he released the boy, he supposes. There's some sort of sympathy going on-and sympathy definitely doesn't have a place in his life-something about his dream and-

The by-now-familiar blinding pain takes longer to subside this time, and when it does it doesn't go away completely, just fades to a dull but persistent ache behind his eyes.

He tries to recall his train of thought, but it seems just ahead of him, like a word he knows but can't quite think of.

The assassin shakes his head, slips the knife up his sleeve, and starts walking.

* * *

The assassin, wearing an outfit that's half-stolen, half-salvaged, picks up two notebooks, some food, a bag, and a pack of water bottles from a convenience store.

The first notebook is set aside for things he wants to know - all his questions, all the things he knows he's forgotten. Everything he hopes someone else might be able to tell him someday. He leaves it alone and picks up the second one.

He opens it to the first page and writes ALEX in all caps. He stares at it for a moment, underlines it twice, and then moves to the next page.

At the top, he writes _Ben_. Then, one slow letter at a time, he adds _Daniels_. He's given up trying to figure out where anything is coming from, so he doesn't put much thought into it. _Ben Daniels_ just feels right.

The assassin thinks for a few moments, but nothing else comes to mind. So what if he just has a name - he can work with that, maybe. He has no resources and nowhere to go, but he can maybe work with that.

No, he can't work with that. But his mysterious thought bursts aren't giving him anything else, so he moves on.

He writes _Wolf_ at the top of the next page and immediately realizes he doesn't have anything he can put there either. He curses quietly, clenches his fist. He's never going to get anywhere. He's on his own, with no support, no money, and vague, memories of some old half-life that may or may not be real.

(He's starting to feel more and more like it is.)

The assassin sighs and leans his head back. He takes a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. If he doesn't think this through, he's never going to get anywhere.

He turns the page back to Ben Daniels and doesn't think. Doesn't try. Just lets his pencil move across the page, leaving behind-

A sketch. A rough sketch, but just enough for him to be sure - Ben Daniels is the soldier he saw on the roof. And the one he saw - where else? Somewhere else.

The interrogation room. Ben Daniels had been in there, had been worried about him. Worried about... _Alex_.

He tries to simultaneously relax and concentrate on Ben Daniels, fully aware that the thought-ending pain could come at any second. His pencil writes something.

His head explodes in blinding pain.

But when he looks down, he sees a phone number scrawled across the page, right under the sketch he just barely recognizes as his own work.

It's Ben Daniels's number. It has to be.

He has to call it. He needs to know.

He needs a phone.

* * *

Lifting a phone is easy. Getting the courage to call the number is not. What if it isn't Ben Daniels's number? What if MI6 finds out?

What if he doesn't find any answers?

The assassin stares at the phone for ten minutes. Puts the number in. Deletes it. Puts the number in again.

Finally, he has to confront it - he's afraid. He has no idea what's going on, no idea who he is. No idea who he was.

He doesn't like being afraid. He's trained not to be afraid.

He hits dial. The phone rings once. Twice.

Then, a voice, almost familiar. "Hello. Daniels here."

* * *

K-Unit finally leaves the Bank a few hours after the escape, after they've gone over every detail with each other and with Mrs. Jones. The main conclusion is that they have no one to blame for what happened but themselves. The secondary conclusion is that they very much need to find Alex, who is currently somewhere in London with no memory of who he is and exceptionally thorough and dangerous training.

Ben can't help but feel that they should have done more. He doesn't know what. But there had to have been something.

"Hey," Eagle says, nudging his arm. "I know that look. Stop that."

"Stop what?" Ben replies.

"You're worrying."

"You aren't?" Ben says, slightly sharper than he means.

"Ben, of course he is," Snake interrupts. "We all are. But we can't do anything."

Ben doesn't bother replying, just leans back and keeps staring blankly at the TV.

His phone rings. He doesn't recognize the number - it might be MI6.

"Hello. Daniels here."

"Ben? Ben Daniels?"

Ben sits straight up. "Who is this?" he asks, though he already knows.

"I was hoping you could help me answer that," Alex replies.

Ben waves at the others, mouths _Alex_. Snake's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he swears loudly and fumbles for his own phone.

"Please," Alex adds, before Ben gets a chance to reply. "I need to know what's going on, and I know there's no reason you should trust me but - I-I need to talk to you."

He doesn't sound like Deathmask - he doesn't have the impenetrable demeanor, the perfect evenness of tone. He sounds like Alex, and he sounds scared.

Ben points to Snake and moves his hand in a cutoff gesture. Snake gives him a questioning look but puts the phone down. Ben hits the speakerphone button.

"Alex," Ben says cautiously. "Can I call you Alex?"

"Is that my name?" There's desperation in Alex's voice, further cementing to Ben that he is not talking to Deathmask.

"Yes," Ben says firmly. "It is. It was. Alex, what's-"

"I need answers," Alex interrupts. "Can we meet? I know you shouldn't trust me, I know I shouldn't trust you, but I keep having these dreams and these thoughts and...I need to know."

The rest of K-Unit is staring at Ben expectantly. Wolf shakes his head in warning.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Ben says. "You were going to kill me."

"How do I know I can trust _you_?" Alex fires back. "You work for MI6."

"I don't work for MI6."

"You could still turn me in to them. Very easily."

"And you could kill me very easily."

Alex sighs. "Okay. That's fair. I, uh, I guess we'll have to run this on trust. Can we do that? We'll both come alone. No weapons. No contacting anyone."

"Okay," Ben says, earning an immediate glare from Wolf and a look of disbelief from Eagle. "Just tell me when and where."

He turns off speakerphone and listens to what Alex tells him. "Alright, I'll see you then. Be safe," he adds, on instinct.

A pause. "I will," Alex replies. "Goodbye."

Ben puts his phone down and gets a split second of silence before the others start talking all at once.

"It's not safe!"

"You can't trust him!"

"Ben, he's dangerous."

"I need to know!" Ben exclaims. "Okay? I just need to know."

"It's not worth risking your life," Snake objects. "He almost shot you before, there's nothing to stop him from trying again."

"I think we should call MI6," Eagle says. "They should know where he is."

"I'm not going to call anyone," Ben replies. "I told him I wouldn't."

"There's no guarantee he'll keep that promise!" Wolf exclaims. "Ben, listen. Deathmask is an extremely dangerous assassin who could kill you before you can do anything. You have no way to know he won't bring a weapon and no way to know you'll be safe."

"It isn't Deathmask!" Ben says. "You heard him. That's Alex. He doesn't sound...cold. He sounds confused and scared and nineteen. I'm going to help him. Don't call MI6, and don't come with me."

"Ben-"

"I trust him, okay? I trust Alex."

Ben stands up and walks out the front door.

* * *

A tap on her shoulder makes Emily jump, and she removes her headset.

"Have you been monitoring Two-Forty-One?" the man asks.

"Yes, sir," she says. "He hasn't put on the mask again, but I've been able to listen through it and I have his location. And, sir, there's something a little concerning."

"Yes?"

"Some of the data shows anomalous brain scans - I believe the programming might be failing," she says. "And he's contacted Ben Daniels. They're meeting later today."

The man sighs. He had been hoping that they would recover the subject before he came into too much contact with his former life, but it appears that they're already too late. If they do recover the subject, he might be able to restore him to his former state. However, it would be difficult and time-consuming, and he doesn't want to spend another six months on him when he's obviously unstable.

"Take him out," the man orders.

"Daniels?" Emily asks. "Or Two-Forty-One?"

"Daniels is the first priority. If you don't believe we can restore Two-Forty-One, kill him too. I'd rather we lose him than someone else use him to find out about us."

"Are you sure, sir? He's been very successful."

"Obviously, I'd rather not lose him. But we can't take the risk of being discovered. I trust your judgment, Emily," he says pleasantly. "Take him out if you deem it necessary."

"Alright, sir. I'll take care of it."

* * *

 **A/N:** listen, I know it's short and not much happens. but I put out a chapter! please be proud of me!

I'm never making a promise of when I'll update this ever ever again because I can't ever stick to it. so I'll update when I update!

reviews are a big part of my inspiration (hint hint?) :)


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